


these hallowed lawns

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"he'd rather be alone than have Roger-fucking-Federer, with the best luck in the world, sitting with him"</p><p>Originally posted in July 2007. (Apparently, pre-writing a semi-final between Roger and Andy DOES NOT WORK.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	these hallowed lawns

With perfectly manicured grass under his feet, he finally feels like he's home.

There's no containing his excitement, extra bounce in his step as he almost skips over to the net, dropping his bags in record time, and when he sees John laughing at him, he just sticks out his tongue and goes back to warming up.

It's comforting to have a stable surface, nothing like the clay which he slips and slides on, slightly too un-coordinated to find his footing and too regularly he'll find himself covered in clay, skin itching until he showers after his loss. Because it's always a loss when it involves clay, no matter how fast it is.

There's no one else at Wimbledon yet, he's the first and he takes his locker, the one he's had every year since he's been playing here and when Jimmy asks him why he doesn't use the nice locker room, he just shrugs and scrawls his name on a piece of tape before sticking it to the wooden door. Though, most the players know it belongs to him now, he wouldn't hear of anything else.

He wants to do the tour of Wimbledon again, the one he did the first year he was here and hasn't quite found the time to do it again, until he remembers that Jimmy has a membership to the club and they can go anywhere they want and when they've grabbed something to eat, they head towards the building site, what he knows is Centre Court but at the moment, doesn't really resemble it.

"You want to see how it looks?" Jimmy asks as they find themselves walking towards it, and Andy nods, and he sometimes wonders how Jimmy can read his mind but doesn't question it too much. One look at the older man and he knows that he's just as curious to see how it looks without the roof.

Security isn't as tight as he thought it would be, there's only one security guard and when he's looking the other way they run past him, hi shoes squeaking as they turn the corner but it's not noticed by the guard, and before he realises it they're in the waiting area before they step onto the court. His stomach tightens a little, remembering the two finals he'd lost, one almost spectacularly to a flawless Roger Federer, except this time he pushes the nerves away because the worst that can happen now is they get caught.

And on a day like today, when they're the only people here, that's unlikely to happen.

His breath catches as they walk about the corner, and it's more spectacular that he could have imagined, and after a moment of him taking it all in, he pauses at the edge of the green lawn, even more lush than the practise courts.

"I don't think anyone's gonna catch you if you step on it, Andy," the now familiar voice of his coach says, and Andy sighs, taking a step onto the perfect grass, standing till for a moment before he looks up at the sky and slowly turns in a circle.

"It looks bigger," he says quietly, "I didn't expect that."

A few minutes later and he gently sits on the court, careful not to disturb the grass too much as he knows that if the grounds men found them here, they'd be killed. Or maybe just heavily maimed, but it's still leaning towards not good at all.

"What was the last match you played here?" Andy asks, eyes fixed on a point in the stands, voice almost disheartened.

"I-" and Jimmy stops, not wanting to give an answer that Andy really doesn't want to here. "It was a long time ago, Andy. I don't think I remember."

Andy knows he's lying, tells him so by the look in his eyes as he turns to stare at his coach.

"The last match I played here... I lost."

Tears are threatening to fall, just like they did after the match with Murray, the British crowd ragging on him and he'd hated every single second of that straight sets victory, walked off court like it was the worst thing in the world because that moment, those few minutes after his defeat, it was the lowest point of his career because he was meant to be the best on grass, except Roger.

"You won't lose this year."

When Andy looks into Jimmy's eyes, he knows that at least one person in this world believes in him.

\- - - - -

All he can think about now is a shower. And here, they have nothing but the best for the best, gold faucets and showerheads and marble flooring and every type of shower gel that exists and ceiling-to-floor mirrors so that vainer people than him can look at themselves from every different angle before they step on court. Not that they would ever admit to it, but at his first US Open with Mardy, they'd hidden behind the lockers and giggled softly to themselves.

Except, he doesn't have the best here. They offer it to him every year, his own locker in a beautiful locker room and last year he thought he could have it all, because he'd needed some comfort after the first awful six months, but it didn't help. He doesn't want to become superstitious but here he can't help it, and it's back to the locker room for players ranked below 50, where some of the juniors stare at him in awe but he's learned how to deal. A smile and an autograph usually gets them off his back.

He's dragging his bags behind him, worn out from the two-hour practise session they'd just had, half a step slower from stepping off a plane less than six hours ago and it had shown. Now he just wants some alone time before he listens to Jimmy talk about what he was doing wrong, and though he loves the calmness of his coach he doesn't want to listen to it today.

Something clunks in his bag as he drags it down the first step, but he doesn't care, he can always get new racquets and there's a crunch as he pulls it down the next.

"Andy."

He almost trips over his own feet as he turns to see Roger standing at the top of the flight of stairs, and he has to hide the grin he knows will be on his face in seconds.

"Hey Rog."

As much as Andy tries, there's a smile in his voice that he can't quite cover up and he thanks anyone that will listen that Roger, while a fantastic tennis player, isn't quite the smartest cookie in the tin, and hasn't noticed that he's being watched almost all of the time. Yet, anyway.

"I was looking for you earlier."

"Oh?" and not for the first time, he curses not having a poker face. Or a poker voice. Because he's just a little too chirpy for something that sounds a little ominous.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to practise with me but it looks like you already have done."

"Oh. Uh, tomorrow?" he says, stumbling over his words because he doesn't want to miss an opportunity like this. Jimmy would be proud, definite insights into the world number one's game but when Roger smiles at him from across the net, losing to him, even in practise, it's all worth it.

"Eleven." And Roger smiles, and then Andy's smiling back, and before he knows it, Roger's disappeared out of sight, and he's alone again. Just like he wants to be.

\- - - - -

 

The players' restaurant is just the same as he remembers, chairs pushed around too small tables, always too many players for the space and he's glad he's found the table in the corner that's out of hearing range from the rest of them, simply because he doesn't like his conversation being listened to by every other player who has decided to eat at the same time as him. It doesn't have the view of the other tables, but he'll take it.

Mardy's on his left, the blonde pushing around lukewarm spaghetti on the plate, occasionally taking a bite but mostly he's just gazing at everyone else, and a glance at him between bites but confirms that Andy should be worried. It isn't like Mardy, not even after a loss like the one he'd had the day before.

"You want to go out tonight, Mar?"

Not-quite-blue eyes stare back at him, and Andy almost flinches, regretting that he'd said anything at all.

"My flight's tomorrow morning. I, I can't," and Mardy bites his lip at the end of the sentence, and goes back to playing with his food, something that his mother had always told the pair of them off about.

"Dinner then. My treat." He tries an encouraging smile but even that falls flat, but Mardy nods anyway. "Wherever you want as long as it's not anywhere near the Village."

"And I was going to suggest somewhere that you'll be recognised and we won't have a moment's peace."

Though the words sound harsh, Mardy's tone is gentle, teasing, and there's a tiny bit of relief because he doesn't like seeing the person who knows him best upset because it's not Mardy. And he's not exactly good at dealing with Mardy like this. Never has been.

"You mind if I eat that?" and before Mardy even replies a plate is pushed towards him. Fingers meet for a brief second, and at moments like these he misses the spark that they used to have, the spark that when they're drunk together, they sometimes seem to recreate but it's nothing compared to what he used to feel when Mardy ‘accidentally' brushed the tips of his fingers over his arm.

\- - - - -

In the months he'd been away from a grass court, he'd forgotten how much he hates the rain. It was bad enough at Queens, but here it seems to be worse than ever and he doesn't remember a year that it was as bad as this. Card games filled the time until he lost close to his prize money and then he'd said no more to Jimmy, because though he could probably afford it, he didn't care to break into his own pocket unless he knew it would be covered by his prize money.

And as he watches the fans walk around with their umbrellas, people huddled together in raincoats, he isn't sure that he'll ever be guaranteed of more money, because he doesn't actually think they'll ever finish the tournament.

"Is this seat taken?" a voice comes from beside him, slightly nervous, and he looks round to see Roger dressed in his whites, looking like his should be on a perfect green lawn, instead of standing behind a slightly worn couch, looking out into cloudy grey skies.

"You don't have to ask if you want to sit down, you know," he says, pulling his legs underneath him as Roger carefully puts his racquet bag to the side.

"I thought you might be saving it for Mardy. It's the only seat left, you know," and Roger smiles, and Andy wishes that Roger hadn't asked, because he'd rather be alone than have Roger-fucking-Federer, with the best luck in the world, sitting with him. And he doesn't really want to have to explain it to John, or Jimmy, because it's one thing practising and another being friends with someone who's beaten you thirteen times.

"Mar's gone home," he says softly because he doesn't want to remember that one morning, Mardy was just gone. No note, no nothing, and not even when he said he was. He'd left him a message, and then a second and third, and all he'd gotten back was a text saying that Mardy was okay and he was home safely. Though home could mean anywhere with the life they lead.

Roger doesn't reply to this, just shifts a little on the couch and Andy shuts his eyes and listens to the rain, which, he guesses, isn't going to stop for a while so he might as well get some rest considering he's third on court and there hasn't been a moment of play yet.

"How did you get so lucky, Feds?"

He opens one of his eyes to see Roger shrug, confusion on his face.

"Tommy withdrew. You're in the quarters while everyone else is playing catch up."

There's a soft laugh from his left, and he looks over again as Roger pushes dark brown curls from his eyes.

"It would be better to know that you are playing well and win in straight sets, rather than not playing for five days."

"You want to play my match for me?" he says, smirking, and Roger grins right back at him and there's a moment when it's almost too comfortable. "I doubt they'd notice you were playing for me, everyone would be too happy to actually see some tennis."

"You need the practise," and Roger's laughing as he says it, twinkle in his eye but Andy's eyes still narrow, sharp retort on his lips when he carries on. "I expect a match, you know. If we make it." He pauses for another moment, fiddles with the bottom of his shirt for a second, discarding some invisible dirt. "I missed playing you here."

Andy isn't even sure how to reply to that, ultimately shocked that Roger has actually missed playing him at Wimbledon or maybe it's because he knows it's an easy ride, that he can kick ass on grass on matter how well he's playing and he wants that fifth one to equal Borg. If Roger has really missed playing him here, he doesn't want to think about it until after their match, more scared than ever that he won't even come close to Roger because how can he now that Roger's told him that?

"I'm sorry," is muttered as Roger slips away, and it only hits Andy that he's gone once Roger's disappeared from view.

\- - - - -

It all ends as it was predicted. Not quite as bad as 2005, where he was close to humiliation, but not as good as 2004, where he at least won a set. He didn't play badly, per se, but Roger played well and honestly, he'll admit that when Roger's playing well, on grass, no one can beat him. Not even Nadal, who seems to have Roger's number on every surface.

There's always a Centre Court loss to end his Wimbledon run and this year is no different, a match hyped up so much that it could never live up to the expectation. And more often than not now, it's been at the hands of the best the world will probably ever see.

The racquet is the first thing to go, satisfying crack as he whacks it against the wooden lockers, doesn't care that he's probably broken the locker but the racquet has gone too, no more use to him and it's tossed to the side as he throws his bags down. It's not fair, knows that if Roger-fucking-Federer wasn't around then he'd have at least two Wimbledon titles, maybe more.

Another racquet taken out of his bags, this time it's hit against the floor but there's still a satisfying crack, the only thing that is making him feel a tiny bit better.

Footsteps are ignored because he's certain it's John coming to check on him, checking that he hasn't destroyed the locker room yet and he isn't not this time, just a few racquets because he can always get more. He always does. But the hand on his shoulder isn't John's, and it's not Jimmy's. It's the hand that was curled at his waist not ten minutes earlier, a hand that's been on bare skin after matches, one time sliding down to his ass and he shivers as he remembers how he kept himself together.

"I'm sorry," Roger says and it comes out not much louder than a breath, Andy close to cracking, to punching Roger in the face though he doubts that will help now.

"It wasn't a match, Roger. Not even fucking close."

Andy pulls away, stalking to the other side of the locker room, out of Roger's way because he's close to snapping now, temperament unstable after the best of losses but this one meant more than any other, it was meant to be his year and once again, he's been upstaged.

"Been a long time since I've been down here." He's still quiet, shifting from foot to foot as he speaks, and Andy can't take his eyes off him. "Andy, I didn't-"

"You didn't mean to what Roger? Beat me like that? Sorry doesn't change that, so fuck off back to your perfect life and your perfect fucking girlfriend and your millionth slam and forget about me."

His teeth are gritted, each word coming out as a snarl as Roger takes baby steps towards him, not even scared of his temper anymore and he wonders if that's what he's become, a joke to everyone else because he can see the smirk on Roger's face.

"You don't even have to try anymore, do you Feds? You tell me you miss playing me but that's probably because I just hand you slams on a platter; you probably think I don't even try and guess what, you've found a new way to beat me now because telling me you missed playing me here? Fucked with my mmmmph-"

He hasn't noticed Roger in front of him, too bitter to notice his victor is mere inches away from him and then his mouth is covered and his eyes are wide until he relaxes and his hands are tangled in damp cotton and he's pulling Roger closer, an arm snaking around his neck because it's what he's been wanting for weeks, months, probably even years. Teeth clash briefly but he tilts his head and it's just right again, back pressing against the wall as the anger in him evaporates.

When Roger pulls away, he's smiling giddily and Andy knows that he's a mirror image of his own expression.

"You could do with a shower, Andy." The tone is suggestive, and when Andy raises his eyebrow Roger laughs. Though Andy would call it a giggle, he'd never say it to Roger's face.

"Is that an invitation?"

"If you come upstairs. I'm not showering down here."

"Snob," Andy mutters under his breath as he's pulled out of the room, his clothes forgotten and when Roger looks at him he puts on his sweetest, most innocent smile, the one that used to work on everyone but his mother. And it works on Roger too; a roll of eyes and then a kiss, and when it's over Andy's fingers remain gripped on the cotton of his shirt.

"Took you long enough," he murmurs against Roger's lips, a hint of a smile as he presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I knew, Andy."

"Then-"

"I was waiting for the perfect moment."

As much as Andy could argue with Roger about that, because a beat down doesn't seem like the perfect moment to him, he knows that somehow, in their precious tennis bubble, Roger's right. It was perfect. And maybe it wasn't Wimbledon that made him feel though he was finally home; maybe it wasn't the grass at all.

Maybe it was the memories of Roger that made him feel at home. And maybe if this was the outcome of another Centre Court loss, he could take that too.


End file.
